


Bullets out of Guns

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Mafia AU, Slow Burn, hamilton needs to Go To Bed, it gets gayer dw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aaron Burr, esteemed sniper, has been working to assist the Washington family more, has been there longer; he can plan better, he has better strategies.<br/>But then Alexander comes tumbling in with vicious words and bloody  knuckles and maybe Burr won't be the best man for Washington after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mess. I know. But I had a hell of a good time writing it and I hope you have a good time too.
> 
> Comments are always super ultra appreciated!!!!!! Please comment if you can!
> 
> Come yell with me about hamburr or hamilton or anything on my tumblr august-songs.tumblr.com  
> Enjoy the ride folks

Burr has received some really shitty undeserved assignments throughout the years, from the nannying job through the administrative work, but this is really the pinnacle of it.  He’s been working his ass off for several years, slogging up through the administrative work, flying through training, and now before they let him even be _partially_ available for caporegime candidacy, or even let him talk with the underboss, he’s forced back onto surveillance. It’s an added bonus for the higher ups that the area he’s supposed to be watching is near the banking assignment that all the newbies have to do. And so he’s scrolling through his phone, keeping one eye out for the man he’s supposed to be meeting, replying to emails and mentally reviewing the layout of the storehouse he’ll be reporting to once this hellhole of an assignment is over, when a teenager literally runs into him.

Burr knows he probably shouldn’t, but it’s been a long fucking day, okay, so he takes a step back and puts one hand on the kid’s chest, pushing back with a fair amount of force. The boy stumbles back, nearly tripping on the uneven paving, before coming the a stop and lifting his head, finding a comfortable standing position. “Sorry,” Burr says, not feeling sorry at all but not wanting tears. (Especially if it’s a civilian. Shit, he _hopes_ it’s not a civvie.) “What do you want?”

The teen is skinny and looks like he’s unused to both the windy cold that is New York in autumn and eating more than one and a half meals a day. He’s got his head tilted down right now, one hand rubbing his shoulder around where Burr punched it. but he snaps it up when Burr asks him a question. And despite his overall disheveled state, his eyes are dark and look like lightning.

“Excuse me,” he says, sounding about half as sorry as Burr feels. “Are you Aaron Burr?” he says, and his lips quirk upward into a smirk, throwing Burr’s question away. He focuses on Burr’s face with those fire-dark eyes and then looks up and down him, taking in the pressed suit and crisp tie, before returning back to the eye contact. “Sir?” He bites his lip in what could be nervousness or just disrespect.

Burr narrows his eyes and, in return, rakes the shorter man with his eyes. His clothes are discount, rumpled blazer halfway buttoned and trousers halfway made of patches. And for some reason, he responds to the teen. “Who’s asking?” 

“Oh!” And then his manner flip-flops and he’s all eagerness, tripping over himself to offer a hand. “I’m Alexander Hamilton, at your service.” He pauses, then adds,  “I’m part of the… business.”

And _of course_ , with Burr’s luck, this shitty assignment comes with teenagers who don’t know the proper terms to indicate that they’re in training with the Washington family and who draw your attention to themselves, with or without your permission. “And what do you want?”

“Sorry, sir. I know you’re supervising this program, I was trying to talk to the banks, someone called me a Creole idiot and I punched him? I think? It’s sort of blurry, but I really do need to get the data for the analysis by the end of tomorrow. And, ah, the guy I might’ve punched is one of the accountants?” Hamilton appears to have said this all in one breath, barely stopping between sentences. Burr has a feeling that Hamilton has a lot to say.

Burr needs a drink. “You punched the bursar? Really? Your job is simple— to get financial information— and you punch the one man who could help you get it? Not to mention, blowing your goddamn cover?”

But instead of looking abashed, Hamilton’s face lights up in a smile and he nods quickly. “Yes! You get it! And even besides the data, I’m pretty sure he was planted by the org.” Digressing is never a good idea, and yet here Hamilton freaking goes. “See, I want to finish this program like you did, in a year if I can make it, and join the real group, the front lines. How’d you move up the ranks program so fast?” Burr can see him move his heart from his sleeve to his face, see his eagerness, his vulnerability and ambition, in his expression and hear it in the rapid-fire words.

Burr sighs. “You seem like a nice guy; can I give you some advice? No charge.” Because Hamilton is charismatic, sure, but if he keeps on like this someone’s going to shoot him and leave him in a ditch. Hamilton pauses, looking like he’s about to speak, and then nods.

And Burr leans in, his nose almost touching Hamilton’s, and says with as much care as he can muster, “Talk less. Idiots like you who let their mouths run faster then their brains end up shot in a ditch somewhere.”

Hamilton flinches back, visibly offended, before straightening his back and smoothing over his face. It’s a look every mafia worker knows, the most basic of basic poker faces; and even if the wrinkles on his forehead didn’t ruin it, it’s a look that doesn’t suit him in the least. “Excuse you. My brain moves exactly as fast as my mouth does, sometimes faster. It’s not my fault you can’t keep up.”

Hamilton stands up too fast, and gives no sign that he notices Burr slipping the contact information of another bursar, one more partial to letting fast-talking teenagers have access to certain crucial information, into his back pocket, besides leaning slightly into the touch.

 

————————

 

It’s late at night when Hamilton finishes his report and rushes to his supervisor’s door. This shouldn’t be a particularly unusual calling time for the man— noon is normal for the suited businessmen, but assassinations and other manners of undercover work go off much better when dusk or dark night blur the crime scenes, he knows. But this knock was unscheduled and presumably unexpected, so it’s fifty-fifty if he’ll be greeted with a hand or a gun.

He hears the soft click of a latch being lifted and Knox, a caporegime so old and so regarded as nice that he’s been delegated to supervision of young trainees, steps out. “Alexander. What’s… _troubling_ you?” Hamilton is bouncing on his toes unconsciously, brushing his hair behind his ear. He’s only been in the initiation program actively for a month, and this job was one of papers and writing— menial work, boring and tedious. But it had to be done, even if badly, and the young ones, the new ones, did it best, he’d been told. Around five thousand words of analysis on data they’d had to collect from banks, that was the assignment, and so ten thousand as an end product isn’t _that_ bad, really. Everyone else is still working to collect their statistics and analyze them properly.

He grins gently and offers forward the papers, watching as Knox’s eyebrows rose minutely. “I have the analysis.” Hamilton, bouncing on his toes with a self-satisfied smirk, can almost see Knox’s thoughts. _No, this can’t be right_ , Knox is probably thinking. And then… something about him looking irresponsible, about him being early with the report.

 

“You look very excited for someone who’s just written an analysis on the flow of money through borderline-illegal banks,” says Knox in that odd space between deadly serious comments and wry humor. Hamilton tries to smooth down his expression. “Give me the analysis.”

He grabs the paper from Hamilton’s hands and pulled him inside. Hamilton looks back, sure that he was forgetting something but unsure what until Knox cuffs him around the ear— _ow, shit_ — and glares pointedly at the door. _Oh. Yeah. The lock._ Hamilton’s eyes widen and he reaches over to fumble the locks into place until the door is secure. “Sit while I look it over,” Knox instructs in a weary voice, and Hamilton sits halfway on the arm of a nearby chair. He doesn’t like to sit while others stand. It makes him feel small.

The man leaned against the wall and flipped through the papers. Hamilton can pinpoint the exact moment when he realizes how long the report is, when he’s ready to dismiss the whole thing.“I said only to include the _relevant_ data.”

But Hamilton pastes on another grin, a little more smug this time, and raises his own eyebrows. “I did, sir. Only the relevant pieces. There’s an extra table on page two and a graph of annual revenue on page twelve.” And Knox’s face… oh boy. If 12 pages made this man’s face fall, he was not ready for the rest.

“How many pages are in this thing?” It’s a rhetorical question, Hamilton knows— he’s flipped to the back, and seen that there are twenty-one. All filled to the brim with text. Hamilton smirks gently. “Don’t answer that, I can read.” Knox raises his eyebrow slowly at the self-satisfied boy. “What the hell?”

“I wanted to be sure my analysis was complete, and I’m sure you’ll agree it’s impossible to do that without a complete review of the revenue’s sources and the effects of this revenue, including its effects on the Wall Street business model.” Hamilton’s walking a fine line between overblown, unbelievable earnestness and overpowering sarcasm, and he knows it. “Is it thorough enough?”

“Enough? Yes, yes, I’m sure,” Knox says, distracted. He’s flipping over the second page now, almost finished with the introduction. “I’ll send it to the uppers, see if they think it’s good enough.” And something about the way Knox says that makes Hamilton believe that they will. Knox looks up at him. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“See you then, sir.” Hamilton manages to keep a straight face until he exits the building. Nice work, Hamilton.

 

————————————

 

It’s several months later, when trouble is brewing up top and the Kings (bastards, just because Washington’s house was originally an offshoot of theirs doesn’t mean it’s not an _individual house_ ) have started to crack down on the illegal transport of drugs in Washington’s house, that Alex is moved to what are colloquially known as the front lines. (He’s learned a lot, but still he starts conversations with dark eyes and eager half-smiles.) Burr is always out on the front lines, but rarely appears, only when they need a master sniper or cover or an assassination that _must_ go off well. He misses ground fighting, although he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy his new role.

But all the snipers in the world can’t win a gang war, and when real war breaks out (the Kings massacred some associates on Washington’s territory) Hamilton receives a letter in blue ink instructing him to meet a man called Hercules Mulligan.

Mulligan was originally a costume designer, crafting the best sort of clothes for obscure undercover work and durable every-day wear, Hamilton learns. But now he’s on the front lines, and when he decides he wants to fight or intimidate, he is vicious fast and efficient. Hamilton hears the mutters— Mulligan and Hamilton are either the best or worst team that they’ve ever seen, mismatched motherfuckers— but pushes them aside.

Hamilton does have Mulligan yelling at him on an almost daily basis. Normally, the inflammatory topic is something along the lines of “you’re a fucking brilliant writer, you idiot, and you fight like a demon, so when will you get some _goddamn common sense_ or act like a _civil human being_?”  And of course Hamilton has to respond, defending whatever revolutionary thing he did.

But no matter how well they get on personally (and it’s normally pretty well, actually, when they’re not holding shouting matches), Hamilton knows that the moment they get onto the field they’re all business. The team’s biggest assignment is a fairly simple one in theory— break the King’s ties with a certain group of Hessians, break into a record-storing house to obtain some of Kings’ records of gambling locations and profit, turn them in to their caporegime. Mulligan has a careful plan, involving two days and seven different locations to meet up, and they explode into action.

The mission is an adrenaline blur, instincts and Mulligan’s tall frame intimidating Hessians and quick hands and dropping papers across the room stamped with Washingtons’ sign. But once they have the reports, Hamilton highlights the important parts— and then, just for kicks, attaches a mission report eight pages longer than it needs to be, making financial connections with some _other_ , less savory activities of the KIngs. One of the guys on the team, a poetic drunk, tells him he writes fast and elegant and brutally, and Hamilton thinks that’s hilarious.

 

Again, Hamilton sends his reports in to his caporegime— it’s Greene this time, Capo Nathaniel Greene. They arrive less than a week after the original plan began, and he hopes Knox is stunned. And this time, it’s not just some semi-useless finance report that everyone has to do. It’s an actual report of an incredibly successful mission, completed better then anyone hoped.

Greene calls Hamilton into his office. “Hamilton. You’ve just turned in this report.” 

Hamilton looks confused, but still fiery and eager. He’s managed to get a semblance of a mask upon his face, but he knows that still, his emotions shine through. “Yes…? Is there a problem with it?” Still self assured, he hopes. Knowing his stupid voice, he probably sounds either unbearably smug or just slightly worried.

“No. It’s fine. I’ll be sending it to Washington for approval.” Words that most people dream of hearing. Hamilton smooths his face down. 

“Great. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, actually. I was wondering if, while we’re at it, you’d like to join my team. Secretary for me. It’s quite an honor, you know, I’ve been looking for a new secretary since my old one died.” Greene looks a bit worried at that last bit, but the word ‘died’ doesn’t impact Hamilton anywhere near as much as the word ‘secretary.’ His _secretary._ Knox wants to move him from the front lines, from breaking and entering and hand-to-hand, to _writing e-mails._

How to put this politely.

“No, thank you very much.” He gives a brittle smile. “I quite enjoy my current post. Thank you for forwarding my report to Washington.” He bows his head slightly before turning on his heel and leaving.

 

When Hamilton is called to yet another person’s office, he tries not to take it too badly. “Yes?”

It’s helpful of course that it’s underboss Washington’s office. “Hello. Please wait for a minute, the General is conferencing with another soldato,” a man in a tailored suit said loudly. He was a military man, that’s the rumor, a military man for a short period of time before he was discharged to come back to his family’s mafia. The current boss, a _legend,_ has been imprisoned for a couple years now, and Washington lost no time in becoming the acting boss, complete with his own team.

Hamilton can hear noise inside— people are talking, unreasonably quietly— before the General walks out. He’s tall and stands straight in the natural way that military men do. (It’s never come naturally to Alex.) His head is bald and he looks a little cruel and absolutely pulled together. In control. He sweeps his eyes over Hamilton to make eye contact with tailored-suit-man. “Lee, please send in Hamilton.” 

Hamilton walks in, conscious suddenly of every imperfection in his dress, his frame— how he slouches slightly, his awkward walk, his rumpled blazer and messy hair. He surveys the office instinctively when he notices Burr, fighting to keep a neutral expression and losing, eventually settling on a slight nod in his direction. Burr narrows his eyes and nods back.

“Mr. Hamilton, this is Mr. Aaron Burr,” Washington says. He looks between them. “Have you met?”

“Yes, sir.” It’s Burr who answers, shooting Hamilton a small glance and a nod. “We… keep meeting.” Hamilton tries to keep his smile from overtaking his expression, and is much less successful than Burr, who manages a secret small smile meant for Hamilton’s eyes alone and a straight face that gives nothing away within the same moment. Hamilton drinks in the smile, Burr’s face with eyebrows slightly raised— a message just for him.

But then Burr steps forward again and the moment is broken. “Washington, sir, as I was saying, I appreciate the strategy you’ve taken around Manhatt—“

“Burr?”

“Sir?” Burr dips his head as Washington manages to outrank and overpower Burr with one soft syllable. Alex watches, breathless.

And then Washington’s face hardens slightly. “Close the door on your way out.” Burr takes a step back and his face falls without moving. “Absolutely, sir.” And then he’s turning on his heel and walking out the door, taking care to turn around and shut the door.

Hamilton watches Burr leave with confusion. He was better. He was smarter than Alex— well, or at least he considered himself to be. “Sir? Can I… assist you?”

Washington’s face lightens as he leans forward. “Yes, actually. Hamilton, sit down. I called you here because… well. You’ve been on the front lines. The Kings have twice our numbers and quadruple our weapons. They’ve pushed us almost entirely out of New York. And I’m… in need of some backup, so to speak.” The General is leaning on his desk, his hip pushing into its side.

Alex sits down in the chair, spine still straight but not uncomfortably so. “You… want me to be your backup?”

Washington laughs in that peculiar way that the higher-ups do. air exhaled through the nose and a slight loosening of the mouth. “Yes.” He does it again, his lips stretching into a mockery of a smile. “That is, if you’ll have me.” Alex tries to speak but Washington cuts him off. “Just in these last two months, Nathaniel Green _and_ Henry Knox have tried to hire you. But you… said you were _above_ that work, correct?” Washington makes it sound like a sneer, like a curse. If anyone else had said that to him, he would have punched them. But Washington… he managed to sound regal while doing it, in charge and absolutely horrified that Alex wouldn’t snatch up the opportunity.

“I… I want to fight, I can’t stand the secretary desk work, it’s meaningless and—“ He feels a need to explain himself like he hadn’t before. Washington draws a confession out of him, somehow.

“Yes, yes, I know. You know, before I ascended to this position, I was… a fighter. Like you. I know how intoxicating the field can be.” Washington waves his hands, brushing Alex’s concerns aside, brushing his emotions off, before continuing. “Fighting? Fighting is easy once you have the basic idea. Writing requires skill, talent, requires you to really work for it.”

Writing has always come natural and easy to Hamilton, like breathing. So easy it doesn’t feel like real work. Fighting feels real and painful, feels He doesn’t feel like now is the best time to say that, so he just nods. “And you’d like me to… write for you? Secretary for you? Handle your correspondence?” The word feels funny on his tongue, _correspondence,_ but he tries to say it like it’s natural.

“Yes.” It’s not a complicated request, Alex knows. Washington’s lips twist up into that slightly mocking smile again. “Of course, there will obviously still be… violence, but it’s on a much more personable level.” He pauses again. “Will you?”

Hamilton bites his dry lips, brain whirring. He knows the question isn’t really one, for him. He wants to move up, after all. Doesn’t want to die without telling the world what he can do. And Washington— well, if he’s going to use his writing for someone, Washington may be the best candidate. And opportunities to move up like this, jump this many levels, come once in a rainy blue moon in the mafia.

He’s always liked fist fighting, knife fighting and street fighting, the best anyways. Much better than sniper work or anything of the ilk.

“Yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enter Charles Lee, a dick who should really not be this important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We meet the Schuyler Sisters! And Laurens! And Lafayette! And Burr gets a job!  
> very exciting chapter!!
> 
> Please please please comment or kudos if you can! Or hit me up on my tumblr. i'm always on august-songs.tumblr.com if you wanna Yell about Hamburr. or anything else.

Burr tilts his head and glides out of the office, a storm brewing beneath his smooth face. He’s older than Hamilton. He's better trained than Hamilton, he’s worked more than Hamilton, worked harder, graduated earlier and taken all the unfortunate positions he had to. And then Hamilton comes swanning in, with his passionate eyes and damned sarcastic words, and blows his chances out of the water. He keeps his straight face on, mask on, as he fumes. Burr is so lost in his thoughts that he barely notices the man who leans beside him until he’s turning to whisper in his ear.

The man, with blondish hair that’s impractically long, cannot whisper. He’s trying to, that much is obvious, with mouth barely moving. but it amounts a slightly lower pitched voice and altogether too much spit flying into Burr’s ear. “Are you Burr? The sniper?”

Burr gives a minuscule nod and takes the opportunity to move his head farther away. He stays silent as the man continues to talk. “I’m Lee. Commander Lee. And we’re looking for a new member of our back-up team. Body-guarding the General. You’re the most… easily available sniper there is. Whaddaya say?” He’s from the South,  even a true New Yorker, and it shows in his accent. 

 _So,_ thinks Burr angrily. _This is what you’ve come to, Aaron. The prodigy of the program, glowing example of everything right in the mafia— and you couldn’t get a job from Washington, couldn’t make it to the major leagues. You’re stuck with Virginians spitting in your ear offering you babysitting jobs._

He presses his hands flat against the wall and lets himself speak just one word, very quickly. “Yes.”

Lee winks and grins, self-satisfied. “Wonderful.” He doesn’t need to whisper now, but he’s still trying. An attendant in a close fitting skirt passes by and gives Burr a pitying look. “Come with me.” He stands up and walks towards the elevator, and Burr follows, discretely wiping the spit off his ear.

So he’s going to get to nanny both the president and the man who was asking him for diplomatic advice under a year ago. Wonderful.

 

Despite working sixteen hour correspondence days for the past week, Hamilton doesn’t miss field work as much as he thought he would. There hasn’t been too much physical fighting yet, just some basic training, but it’s fun. Ish. He’s responding to Washington’s third incoherent e-mail from someone in England in as many minutes when Washington himself walks in. “Hamilton. Good to see you.”

“You as well, sir.” Hamilton tips his chin back and looks Washington in the eye.

“Any new information?” Washington leans against the chair, maintaining his height advantage.

“The Advisors have decided that they’re now the preeminent military strategists, and would like to tell you how to command the soldatos and caporegimes.” Hamilton snorts and leans back even further, tilting his head down to laugh. Washington is about to respond when Hamilton’s phone buzzes four times in quick succession. Notifications from his blog, an argument he’d been having.

Washington’s response is immediate. He drags Hamilton’s phone over to him with quick hands. “Alexander. Who’s this… Samuel?”

Fuck. He probably shouldn’t have started the debate. “Samuel Seabury. He’s—” _a Kings-sympathizer, an asshole, an idiot who defined the term hypocrisy and doesn’t understand basic finance, a useless piece of garbage who can’t aim the simplest of handguns_ “—a freelancer.”

“A freelancer? Why are you talking with a freelancer?” Washington’s tone is easy, conversational, but his grip on Alex’s phone is so tight that he can see the sides of his phone case cracking and slipping off. Washington brings the phone nearer to him, scraping the side of the rubbery case along the table with an ugly sound. “Let alone sending him _whatever_ messages caused this level of… incoherent anger?” His voice, his tone, they’re all too casual. Uncomfortably casual. Alex nods before realizing he has to answer Washington’s question and that his face is far too furrowed for that of a mafia secretary.

“Seabury is unfit to even write. He was spreading rumors—“ It sounds like an excuse, Hamilton realizes. But he needs this post, won’t let some idiot _freelancer_ ruin his chances of becoming big

“So you broadcast them online?” Washington clicks his tongue disapprovingly. His nails are clipped short, but when he drags them across the back of Hamilton’s phone case there’s still an _ugly_ sound. He pulls up one of Alexander’s office chairs, still dusty from their time in a storage closet, and sits down. “Disappointing, Alexander. Disappointing.” He pockets Alex’s phone, and Hamilton is about to protest when he sees Washington’s face. The storm has arrived, and Washington’s casual manner is gone— his face is stormy, dark. He tries to smooth his own expression out, with what he assumes is minimal success.

“I understand, sir. I’ll—” Hamilton’s not even sure what he’s bargaining for, isn’t quite sure where the sentence is going.

Washington raises his eyebrows, curls his lips into the sarcastic and barely menacing smile that Hamilton knows too well. “Do you? You’ve been here ten seconds—” and if Hamilton didn’t know this was bad already, Washington engaging in hyperbole is a damn good sign that he’s _fucked_ “—and already you’re arguing with a freelancer, potentially endangering our entire operation?” Hamilton can see his phone in Washington’s pocket, the top edge of the case almost entirely separated from the rest.

Washington pats Alex’s phone in his pocket. “In case it’s not clear, I’m keeping this. Clearly our employee monitoring operations are not adequate.”

Washington stands up again, looming over Alexander as he tries to press himself back into his chair, and continues his lecture. “I really do advise—”

He’s not sure what Washington’s going to say, but he’s glad when an attendant raps twice on Washington’s door with a closed fist. Washington goes, opens the door and beckons him inside.

“Sir. The Sisters are here,” the attendant says. And Washington turns around and strides towards the door, beckoning for Hamilton to follow. (He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or even more stressed. Who the fuck are the sisters, anyway?)They lean against the wall of the hallway outside Washington’s office. A couple other people do the same thing, one officer with a manila folder in his hand and two accountants against the hallway.

There’s a banging sound, and the first girl to enter has black hair that falls straight down her shoulders and a suit on. This is the second thing Hamilton notices, the first being the fact that both her nose and her left hand’s knuckles have the smallest amount of dried blood on them. Also, her eye makeup is just the smallest bit shaky, and her lips are set. But despite that, her eyes are shining.

She scans around the room, takes in Washington and raises her eyebrows at the officer before whipping her head back around again. “Margaret? You coming?” That’s projected so that the whole room can hear, a show for everyone in the room. There’s Washington, Hamilton, the aide, of course. And- Schuyler? And _oh._ These are the Schuyler sisters, shit, practically mafia royalty, assassins and spies. He’s tried _ten_ girls and boys in this position, semi intimidating spy, and they’re all dead or run away. Except These two, evidently.

Hamilton’s dragged out of his contemplation by gentle laughter— no way that’s not staged, Schuyler, sorry— and a Latina girl enters, surprisingly young, in an off-blue suit. “Elizabeth, sorry, I’m here. Checking the pamphlets. Text layout.” Which all makes absolutely no sense given that they’ve almost definitely just come back from an active mission. But the first girl is nodding like it all makes perfect sense. _Probably another of Schuyler’s damn codes._

“Justification?” Eliza raises her eyebrows at Hamilton, almost rolling her eyes, still scanning the room.

Maggie nods. “There was an issue. I got it, though.” Eliza nods, opens her phone, goes over to stand next to Maggie, and looks around again. It makes her look nervous, all this room scanning, her eyes darting up and down and around. Her eyes sweep over the officers, Schuyler, Washington, and make contact with Hamilton’s. She holds the eye contact and her eyes narrow as her lips lift up just slightly. Hamilton stares back. In the mafia, from an _assassin_ , that’s as good as a full-blown grin, and she’s not breaking the eye-contact, raising her eyebrows slightly at him.

“Schuyler.” Hamilton is pulled out of his thoughts by Maggie lifting her head and walking towards the man who’s the Sister’s sponsor, and Schuyler nods back and then turns to Hamilton. 

“Come. It’ll be good for you to learn a little bit more about the way this works,” Schuyler says with a vague hand gesture. Hamilton really doesn’t need this shit right now, but he’s happy to get a respite from Washington.And so Hamilton follows Schuyler into his office, behind the three girls.

Once in, Hamilton shuts the door— he locks it this time, no reminder needed, and Angelica grins. Schuyler stands up. “So. Mission review? Make it nice and quick for Hamilton here.”

Liz leans against the wall. “Well. Let me tell you, we have a lotta shit going on. It was basic infiltration, we were working with Howe. Play the maid looking for work and then the pretty girl looking for a place to stay, make it in, get the information, bleach in the bathwater, get out.”

“Successful?” Hamilton can’t help but ask. 

Maggie raises her eyebrows at him and snorts. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Schuyler raps his knuckles against his desk a couple of times, and everyone snaps to attention “Where’s the files?” Where _are_ the files, Hamilton wants to say, but he doesn’t. 

Liz rolls her eyes just slightly, making eye contact with Hamilton once more. He bites down hard on his lips to stop from smiling. “Here.” She reaches into her purse, too small of a vintage bag to fit all that paper.

Schuyler takes the file and nods once. “Alright, then. This mission was completed early, so you girls get two days off before the next one.” He nods at them again, and apparently that’s a dismissal signal, because the girls nod back and then head out the door, Maggie barely having to fidget with the lock before the door swings open. Liz’s hand brushes against Hamilton’s and she doesn’t say anything, but he can see a slight flush in her cheeks. (Holy shit, a Schuyler Sister. _Flirting_ with him.)

And then they’re gone and Hamilton isn’t quite sure what to think. He hopes he’ll at least get to talk to the girls again at some point in time. He hopes Liz, especially, doesn’t die or run away. (Selfish bastard, Hamilton.)

“So, Hamilton. What did you think?” Schuyler asks. Hamilton’s not sure what he means, but he doesn’t say it.

“The sisters sounded very… competent,” Hamilton says. _That’s safe, surely. And might get me invited back_. “Is there anything else?”

Schuyler gives himself a small satisfied smile, and then looks up in mock surprise. “Actually, there are a couple others you should meet. You’ll be working together with them as the General’s… backup.” Of course the underboss will have his own team. Probably around five or ten people on self-defense or correspondence or something. What’s surprising is that Hamilton gets to meet them.

“Absolutely. Who?” Hamilton resigns himself to a long afternoon but hopefully no more of Washington chewing him out.

“Well, now’s a good a time as any, I suppose,” says Schuyler, pushing back his chair and walking towards the still-open door. There are a couple of young men doing much the same job as yours, aiding the general, with more of an emphasis on security. And then, of course, you must meet the 6 men who make up the official back up team.Hamilton follows, mind whirring at top speed. Of course he’d known before that the general had multiple aides. But after not meeting them, he’d thought that maybe they were… scattered? Just three, for the top general in the entire mafia. Huh.

He walks into the room and is confronted with the sound of loud French yelling. Schuyler coughs, and the yelling breaks into laughter before the man turns around with half a smile on his face. “Hamilton, meet Lafayette,” Schuyler says, and Lafayette breaks into a grin.

“So you are the Hamilton we have heard so much about, oui? The new member of the team?” Lafayette is still smiling, talking in a French accent. He’s wearing a suit and sunglasses pushed up on his head. “I am… how do they say…military planner of Washington. In training. And this—“ he gestures at the other man “—is Laurens.”

Laurens turns around and Hamilton waves a hello. He’s got a half-expectant smile on his face and a tight shirt. “Hey. Alex, right?” Hamilton nods.

““Alexander Hamilton,” he says. _Just Hamilton, please,_ he thinks. But he doesn’t want to be rude to his fellow aide, and Laurens looks about four times more friendly than he’d expected. “I’m handling most of the General’s correspondence and writing responsibilities. What are you in charge of?”

When Laurens grins, his face lights up. “Also a bit of correspondence. Some strategy stuff. I work in the field a lot.”

And Hamilton is about to ask him something else to keep the conversation going, maybe talk to Lafayette a while because he has a feeling that Lafayette might be from the France branch of the crime family which is _interesting as hell_ , just keep talking with his fellow aides.

But then Schuyler is dragging his eyes between Laurens and Hamilton and he clicks his tongue once. “Hamilton, let’s go.” And Schuyler is dragging him along, out of that room and down the hall to another room, similarly sized. _Room 307,_ Hamilton notices, and then Schuyler raps three times on the door. As it swings open, Schuyler turns to Hamilton yet again. “This is the backup team. There’s even a new member.”

Unlike Laf and Laurens, the backup team is quite clearly physically strong and not joking around. One of them is smoking a cigarette, and a man with white blond hair is talking in a grating and unnecessarily loud voice to another man besides him, about a piece of machinery that froze over. He looks up when Schuyler coughs.  “Lee, this is the General’s new aide.”

“Charles Lee. I’m in charge of these men.” Lee gives him a nod and 

Hamilton walks down the line and introduces himself to Thomas Conway, James Reynolds, Adam Thomson, Nathaniel Browne, until he gets to the end of the line and to the last man. And— _what?_

“Alexander,” Burr smiles, tightly, words formal. “Nice to see you again.”

“Burr,” and Hamilton smiles back. “You as well.”

Schuyler is relaxed, gestures for Hamilton to talk to them, so Hamilton sighs slightly and leans against a post before talking again. “How’d you get this job? Congratulations, by the way.”

Burr bites his cheek and remains silent for an uncomfortably long time before appearing to make a decision. He gives Hamilton the slightest of eyebrow raises and the shortest flash of a smug smile. “They were missing a top-notch sniper. I was in the vicinity.”

Hamilton tried to smooth out his face, and is moderately successful. Charles Lee looks over and raises one eyebrow incredibly high on his face. “Mmm.” He’s going to act suave and on top of things. He’s aide to the underboss now, he can pull off a poker face. “Well, best wishes. It’ll be fun working with you in the future.” He gives Burr a little smile— lips curving up, eyes narrowing. _Well, that poker face lasted maybe four seconds._

Burr’s eyes crinkle like he’s about to laugh, and he gives Hamilton a half-smile back— the one that he’d given him earlier, in Washington’s office. Hamilton tries not to pout, lets his eyes smile. “Not normally in the field, but I appreciate the sentiment. Bless your heart.”

(Charles Lee and the man he’s talking to turn around, looking absolutely _horrified_ by the exchange. Lee goes to say something, but apparently decides not to at the last second; he turns around and goes back to the conversation.)

“Absolutely.” And Hamilton turns around, because it’s fun talking to Burr, makes him feel important with secret smiles and little inside jokes, but he really does need to get to work. He feels like a child, and he’s glad he can maintain at least some of a height advantage over Schuyler when he leans against the wall, but he turns and asks, “Thank you so much for taking me to meet the other of Washington’s team. Do you require my assistance on anything else, or would it be possible for me to discuss strategy with my fellow aides?” Even if it ends up being more of a gossip session than a work session, he’s still bound to learn something. It’s been nice.

Burr breathes out heavily, which goes relatively unnoticed by everyone except Hamilton, and gives a slight nod.

Schuyler furrows his brow. “Washington primarily wanted to ensure that you met your fellow aides and back up team, I believe. What would you be talking with the aides about, exactly?”

And this, Hamilton can answer with a brillliant grin and slightly raised eyebrows. “It’s private, monseuir.” Schuyler gives a minuscule sigh and a nod.

“Of course. Discuss it with your aides. You remember their room’s location, I trust?” Hamilton nods and walks out.

When Hamilton opens the door to the aides’ room, he walks in on Laurens and Lafayette in the middle of an intense conversation involving sign language and a significant amount of cursing. 

 _“Pero si el general nos dice que necesitamos a—”_ Laurens breaks off and nudges Lafayette in the side, turning towards Hamilton with half a grin on his face. “Look who it is!”

Hamilton waves, smiles, walks up and leans on the table. “What’s all the discourse about?”

They both look immeasurably guilty, and Laurens says, “Not much. Planning strategy. Some technicalities. Lafayette’s been here a year now, maybe two, but he _still_ doesn’t get the fact that things work differently in the U.S. then in France.” Lafayette now looks offended, and is about to talk when Hamilton jumps in.

“You’re from the FCF?” An acronym— the French mafia. Very brutal, very organized, extraordinarily French. On relatively good terms with the Liberties. They’d sent over several operatives throughout the years.

“ _Oui._ I worked there for… seven years? Maybe eight?” Lafayette brushes some hair out of his eyes and shrugs. “It was different. More etiquette. Less… useless and messy assassination attempts.”

Laurens laughs. “He’s just being elitist. And  bitter. Don’t listen to him, the FCF had twice as many useless customs and got half as much stuff done.”

Hamilton laughs softly. Lafayette pouts and sighs, resigned. “You two are such… Americans. We will need to get to work. Hamilton, what did Washington give you to do?”

“I’ve been answering e-mails, mostly. I don’t know, it’s been sort of weird.” Laurens and Lafayette laugh gently and offer their condolences. Hamilton could get used to this..

 

It’s a couple days later that Burr is sitting down in the office, doing some cataloguing, when Lee walks in and nods at Burr. “Hamilton’s needed. Last meeting of the day, he’s in his office and he’s not answering his phone. Why isn’t he here? Get him.” He’s spitting the words out again, doesn’t like being ordered around by Washington. So Burr nods slowly and heads out. Alexander’s office is one floor up, in a closed off corner.

Burr walks in— Hamilton’s door is unlocked, the _idiot,_ has he not remembered anything of mafia etiquette?— to see Hamilton’s wrists are rubbed raw and red against his desk. He got into his office at 6 am today, Burr knows, and he hasn’t left it since. So he’s been writing and revising his proposed dues plan to pay some of the lower-level Brofor their work for at least 15 hours. Maybe more. It’s dark outside, either way, when he enters.

“Alexander. What a surprise,” he deadpans. He’s hoping that will get him a smile, or at least a soft laugh. Grudges are hard to hold when you’re working together _every day,_ and inconvenient, and it isn’t Hamilton’s fault that he stole his job. So Burr is being friendlier than he would be. But Hamilton doesn’t look up, pausing for a second and then hitting the delete button sharply. He holds it down and then starts typing again, furiously fast. Burr knows he can type, and pretty well too, but Hamilton is on another plane entirely.

Burr walks in a little more, shuts the door— and that’s a real bad sign, that Hamilton doesn’t even look up or stop typing. If someone shuts your door, if someone comes in, you need to be responding quickly. Or you could get shot, or killed, or— something. “Hamilton.”

Hamilton hits the enter button four times and then starts typing again, his fingers sharp on the letters. His hair is disheveled, his lips chapped; his suit is so rumpled that sweatpants would probably look more professional.

It’s the safety risk, Hamilton’s obliviousness, that makes him walk over to Hamilton’s desk, slowly, and put a hand next to his computer. Burr taps him on the arm. “Hamilton.” He presses his wrist down into the desk, forcing him to stop typing.

And Hamilton looks up when he can’t type, his other hand slowing and then stopping. “Burr. Sir. It’s a pleasure.” He gives a half smile, as far as his lips can stretch right now, licks his lips absentmindedly and tries to extricate his wrist. “What are you doing here?”

Burr is not paid enough for this. He presses his thumb into the underside of Hamilton’s wrist and when Hamilton draws in a sharp breath, he does it to his other hand, drawing both of Hamilton’s hands across the table so he can close the laptop computer that Hamilton was on. He sneaks a look at the word counter— 20,000. After a day of brutal revisions. “You need to calm down, Hamilton.”

Hamilton looks up at him with a rumpled suit and says, with furrowed eyebrows and a pouty expression growing angrier by the second, “I am calm. Let me type.” He stands up slowly, tries to push Burr away.

And Burr does not have the time to resist this, to coddle Hamilton and tell him everything will be great. He needs to get him to Washington as soon as possible. So he sighs, lets a bit of mask drop, and then very quickly moves to shove Hamilton against the wall.

“Look, Hamilton. You can’t work sixteen hours straight on the same thing with no breaks and expect perfect productivity.” Hamilton struggles— can’t even remember basic hold breaking, dammit—  and Burr moves his hands from Hamilton’s chest to his wrists. And Hamilton somehow relaxes, just a little, letting Burr hold him up.

“You don’t look up when someone walks in, don’t look up when they close the door— sixteen hours, Hamilton! Too long.” Hamilton sighs and gives a minute nod, easy to miss if you’re not looking.

“To be fair, I was working.” And Burr knows that Hamilton believes what he’s saying, the terrible liar. Burr would tear that apart completely if he had the time, but he really doesn’t, so he just sighs. 

“Even you, Hamilton, need to take a break sometimes. And you’re evidently incapable of processing the basic knowledge of the workings of the human body and applying it to real life. Your brain doesn’t want to function at top speed for sixteen hours straight, no food, no water, Hamilton. Jesus!” He is really exasperated with Hamilton. His head rolls from side to side and his eyes look a little sharper.

Burr can feel Hamilton’s breath on his face. Hamilton licks his lips, overly chapped as they are, and Burr resolutely holds his eyes steadily on Hamilton’s face as he asks with his head tilted to the side, “What are you in here for anyways?”

“What?” Burr doesn’t process what’s asked for a good few seconds, before he remembers and slides his mask into place. “Lee wants you for a meeting with Washington.” _Fuck,_ Lee is probably pissed right now. Burr backs up, takes his hands off Hamilton. “But the meeting can wait, because if you showed up like you are now Washington would kick your ass, and mine too, probably.” Hamilton looks like he might topple to the ground, leaning against the wall with his head still tilted to the left. 

Hamilton furrows his eyebrows. “Will you get me out of the meeting? I still have to work.” And the _idiot hasn’t gotten the point_ , so Burr turns and pointedly saves Hamilton’s work before shutting his computer off.

“You’re not going, that much is obvious,” Burr snorts. “But I’m also not gonna let you work yourself to death, thanks very much. You’re going to need to do _something_ about the sorry state you’re in. Some sleep for starters.” He doesn’t know why he’s so overprotective, all of a sudden.

“What, and you’re going to press my suit and put me to bed?” Hamilton snarks, glaring at Burr. The dark circles under his eyes are pronounced. Burr realizes that this whole conversation has been about a thousand times more emotional then it should have been.

“No, you idiot. I’m going to tell Lee that you’re sick and you’ve gone home, and then you’re going to go home and come in tomorrow ready to work.” He doesn’t outrank Hamilton, so he really shouldn’t be able to order him around like this, but Hamilton doesn’t appear to catch on to that.

“Okay. Fine.” Hamilton is resigned and grumbling, looking both more awake and more tired than he was at the beginning of their interaction. “Fuck you.”

“ _Language_ , Hamilton,” Burr says, and Hamilton’s gaze narrows angrily before he sees Burr quietly laughing. Burr leans in and squeezes Hamilton’s hand before walking out, off to tell Lee that he can go screw himself, thanks.

He could get used to _this_ easy back-and-forth with Hamilton.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have some exciting news.  
> I'm seeing Hamilton and going to NYC next week!! I Yell Everyday  
> The less exciting news is that this means no new chapter for probably ~2 weeks. Instead I'm gonna be editing the first two chapters for more correct info about mafia's actual structure and just general characterization stuff.  
> Have a good day and please please please comment if you can!

Hamilton is with Laurens in his office, sitting across from him at the table and siping coffee. It’s a nice sort of quiet, especially when Laurens taps on the top of his computer and wordlessly offers him a cup of coffee. Hamilton grins, puts his hand atop Laurens’ and takes the coffee cup. He looks up from his screen to meet Laurens’ eyes, smiling and warm, and signs him ‘thank you,’ hitting the coffee cup gently with his hand and smiling back before taking a sip.

Of _course,_ this is the moment Washington chooses to knock on the door, and Hamilton immediately sets his coffee down and begins typing while Laurens gets up, laptop still open, and answers the door.

Washington walks into the room like he owns it, which he does, technically. “Laurens. Hamilton. Good day.” His eyes are narrow and wide at once, like he might smile or burst out in flames. Lauren's sits back down at his computer.

“Good day, sir.” Hamilton relaxes his face, snaps on his mask and sneaks a quick glance at Laurens before looking back at Washington.

“Hamilton. May I see you in my office?” Laurens finger-spells a quick ‘sorry’ under the desk, against Hamilton’s knee. 

Hamilton leans his knee into Laurens’ hand before standing up. “Of course, sir. What is the issue?” 

Instead of answering, Washington beckons him with one hand and walks out, down the hallway. He shoots Laurens a glance before rushing out, short legs walking twice as fast as Washington’s to keep pace. His office seems twice as far away as normal.

When Washington finally comes to a stop, Hamilton sighs silently and walks inside Washington’s office, locking the door. “Yes, sir?”

“Hamilton, there’s been an opportunity.” Hamilton raises his eyebrows and nods. He’s been doing a lot of that lately. “You know my captain?”

Of course. The captain, the one in charge of the majority of troops. “Yes. Van Buren?”

“He is no longer… active.” Washington gives a tight little half-smile and sits down, gesturing for Hamilton to the same.

Fuck. Fuck. Shit. “Yes, sir?” Hamilton’s brain is going approximately two thousand miles an hour, all centered around one idea: _field command field command field command._ Should he suggest it? Will he suggest it? What’s going to happen if he does?

This is the worst idea he has ever had.

“I’m looking for someone who’s able to take over his position. And I know you haven’t been around long, but I am looking for your advice on this.” Washington looks almost earnest, or at least like he’s being honest with Hamilton.

The same advice he’d normally get from a right hand. The same advice he went to van Buren for for so long. _Fuck._ “Sir. This is… unexpected.” He’s going to do it. He’s going to ask for this. Washington won’t be surprised. “I mean, obviously I would love that post, but excepting—“ Washington is looking at him like he’s just started a world war. Hamilton tries to play it off with a laugh, but Washington isn’t having it.

“Hamilton. You are necessary to me, and your escritorial talents are beyond compare.” Washington’s using a nasty, nasty tone for the most praise Hamilton’s gotten since he signed up. “A viable candidate, please.”

Hamilton laughs again. This is terrifying. Fuck. “Lafayette has considerable experience in military strategy. I respect him deeply. I believe that he would be the best option for promotion.”

Washington raises his eyebrows again. “First yourself, then your friend and fellow aide? Is this the sort of objective commentary that I requested?” He stands up, and Hamilton draws in a quiet breath.

“ _Sir_ ,” Hamilton pleads, and Washington takes a jagged step back

“Hamilton,” and Washington is smiling condescendingly, patronizingly, unbearably, “I’m not promoting you.” Which _wasn’t even what he suggested,_ fuck, but it hurts all the same. And then to salt the wound: “Will you send Lee in?” He smiles, eyes narrowing viciously. Hamilton fumes and leaves.

 

Hamilton walks into the office out of of Washington’s office with metaphorical smoke coming out of his ears. “Lee,” he bites out. “Washington would like to see you.” He walks tightly, short strides, until he reaches the wall next to Burr. Hamilton leans himself against the wall on one shoulder and then turns to Burr. Every muscle in his body is tense.Burr can see his jaw clenched, his neck muscles bunched.

“Hamilton,” Burr murmurs. “How goes it?” Lee struts to Washington’s offices. He debates whether or not to touch Hamilton’s wrist with his own.

“It… goes, Burr,” Hamilton says testily. He’s going to be sore in the morning, all this muscle clenching is _hell_ if you don’t stretch. “And you?”

_Fuck it,_ Burr thinks. He presses Hamilton’s wrist into the wall with his own, the sight obscured by their bodies. “It goes, Hamilton. What’s happening with Lee?” The question is bold. The motion is bold. Maybe it’s just that type of day.

“That’s private.” Hamilton straightens up immediately, as much as he can with his wrist between Burr’s and the wall. His shoulder’s relax minutely. Burr presses harder. His shoulder relaxes even more. 

“Fair enough. Something about the second-in-command post?”

When Lee returns from Washington’s office, he is unbearably smug, with a popping new jacket and tie.(Burr shares a look with Reynolds. Fucking unbelievable.) He snaps his fingers and points out the door. “Alright, boys.” Lee is two years older than Burr and younger than the majority of the other men. “You’re looking at the General’s new second in command. Let’s have some respect here. We’re heading out.” Lee starts walking towards the door without checking anything.

Reynolds, bless him, speaks up. “Where we going?” Lee raises his eyebrows and cocks his head.

“Need to know basis.” And then, because Lee realizes second-in-command doesn't give him a right to bullshit, and because every other person on the team has raised eyebrows and looks fucking pissed: “The Kings have done a couple raids around Washington with a specialized team. We’re going to take the team out. Grab your bags; this isn’t going to be any less than a couple of days.”

Burr turns to head towards the storage room when he thinks better of it. “Am I coming?” He says it as sarcastically as possible. He has hand-to-hand combat skills, of course, but Lee has somehow deduced that since he’s primarily a sniper, he shouldn’t be able to come on missions that don’t require one. Which is _bullshit._

But this time Lee raises his eyebrows and nods. “Of course. We need a sniper, I’m almost positive, for the first part of this mission. And of course you’re good at hand-to-hand.” He’s making an effort to be a good leader, Burr thinks, which he is most definitely not.

So Burr does head out with the rest of the team, falling in line and sharing a _look_ with Reynolds.

 

It turns out that they’re headed towards the Bronx. South Bronx, to be more exact, which is really _not_ the place to go if you’re looking for good sniping area. Lee’s probably relying on the fact that people aren’t likely to call the police.

“Here’s the plan, gents,” Lee says. “We’ve already got some nice info on where the Kings are at, thanks to some field agents who went in before us. They’ve got a group headed by Howe around East Harlem, and Howe is going to a dinner with some soldiers soon. Second floor venue. Burr, we can set you up a few blocks away; there are some warehouses available that give you a nice clean line of sight. And there’s not too many people around. Even so, we’ll get you in and out of there nice and fast.”

Reynolds pats him on the back. “And after we take Howe out? What’s the plan then?”

The captain nods. “You know, you need to take out the rest of the crew. Ideally we would do that at the same time as when Burr takes out the captain, or at least within the same time frame. Burr, Reynolds is scouting for you, correct?”

Burr nods an affirmative. “As he generally does.” He knocks Reynolds softly with his arm and nods again.

“We’ll be on our way, then.” Lee gets in the car. He doesn’t even drive, has Reynolds take the wheel and go up several blocks. “His dinner is in around two hours. Burr, get ready.” Lee leaves.

Burr sets up his stand, looks to Reynolds. “Headset.” Both put their headset on, tight headphones and a small microphone at the mouth. He opens his bag, takes out the stand, and sets it up. Assembling his rifle, with subsonic bullets and all, is quite a chore, but it’s good for him. He hums a song to himself, some random one that was playing on the subway.

“Burr, are we good?” Reynold’s voice comes crackling through his headphones. “Fifteen minutes until he enters.”

Burr takes out the paper, with his rough calculations. “Reynolds, remind me again what the wind conditions are like tonight?”

“Not too bad. Four and a half miles south-southwest.” Burr squints and moves his rifle, moving from the eyepiece to his final calculations on paper and back again, tiny adjustments. . “Also— five minutes. His car should be pulling up any minute now. Lee wants a shot during the dinner, though, so keep your sights on the second floor.”

Burr breathes in, out. The car pulls up. “He’s there,” Reynolds says, crackly. “You have about five, ten minutes until he’s at the dinner. Heads up.” There’s a knocking at the front of the building, Burr thinks, so he breathes out extra hard and moves all of his focus to his rifle and the building four blocks down. He looks forward, eyes on the centerpiece, and adjusts it the slightest bit up. The clip is loaded in, he knows. Time is funny when he’s about to shoot.

Knox is walking up the stairs now, he hears over the mic. Walking into dinner. He’ll fire at the toast, Burr decides, and repeats it nice and low to Reynolds. _You can count me off_. In and out, in and out. Breathe.

Knox is standing up, Burr sees. His aim is correct. He waits for Reynolds to count him down, breathing the numbers along with him.

Squeeze the trigger.

_Bang._

Except _bang_ doesn’t do it justice, because he sees Knox crumple and quickly pulls down his rifle, knows that every person for two blocks heard that bang. It could be a firework, it’s the right season, but Burr and Reynolds need to get out of there _fast_. They’ve practiced it, around two minutes for disassembly, and then they’re rushing out. He and Reynolds, moving fast, driving away in a blue car, fast fast fast, blend in with the other people moving away from the explosion. Trying to look scared because of course there will be people watching, pulling on blue jeans to blend in and getting out of the car, because they weren’t fast enough getting out and they’ll have to act their way to the place they’re staying. 

“Did you hear that?” A woman with tightly curled red hair asks him, and Burr nods with wide eyes as Reynolds starts talking a mile a minute. They stop walking for a minute to express surprise, just a minute, nothing more. Reynolds says some excuse about needing to check on Burr’s sister, and Burr sighs and gives the woman a final smile before they finally reach the house, classic mafia hide out, and go in.

There’s a typed note from Lee on the table in the foyer, and Burr picks it up. “Reynolds? You good?” he says as an afterthought. Reynolds is slumped against the side of a chair.

“I. Hate. Being. Late. Out.” The words are far apart and breathy. Reynolds isn’t new to mafia by any means, but he’s never been one for stamina, and sprinting down stairs ( _that was what we did,_ he remembers now, _that was how we got out of the building._ ) isn’t really his thing, especially when followed by high-intensity driving and then running for another ten minutes.

The overview is coming back now, what they did after Burr shot Knox, and he winces at some memories. Everything tends to blend together after he shoots, every sensation so intense that he can’t possibly remember all of them. And even now, he’s getting the bare minimum— no emotions except fastfastfast, no feelings save for the rush.

“Any injuries?” Burr asks, because Reynolds is cradling his leg and sighing.

“No. I just— d’y know Lewis?” And Reynolds has never had the best sense of timing, but even for him this is abominable.

“The weapons girl. Maria Lewis. Yes.” Burr closes off his posture, his face, his words. He doesn’t want to know this he doesn’t—

“I think she’s pre—“ And Burr has never been this glad for a phone call from Lee, ever. He gives Reynolds an apologetic smile while picking up the phone, signing for him to come over. 

“Burr!” Lee manages to carry all the sentiment of whisper-talking and shouting in Burr’s ear over the phone. He sounds quieter, amazingly, even with the crackle. “Don’t reply. We need backup.” He rattles off an address while Burr writes it on the back of his hand. “Seven minutes tops. You and Reynolds need to move your asses.”

Burr listens to the line crackle before hanging up. “Rey. Lee needs us. Backup.” Reynolds sighs again before nodding and rolling his eyes the slightest bit. “Let’s go.” They take the real car this time, dark and expensive, and Reynolds drives quickly through the tangling streets before pulling up at an apartment building that’s surprisingly short and looks like their place except maybe twenty times nicer. _So this is what all that gambling money gets you._

There’s sounds of a fight, and Burr takes his handgun out and walks inside, motioning to Reynolds to follow him. There’s scuffling from the scout’s post— how unprofessional can you be?— and Burr stays very quiet as he moves to the other side of the foyer, getting a line of sight. He fires off one round at the scout, fastfastfast, and the scout drops with a head hit and his suit is still intact. Ha.

Burr and Reynolds split up, scour the house before making it to the living room. Lee is talking with a couple others. Nobody looks enthused.

And then several things happen at once. 

A shot is fired from above, and one man falls to the ground. Reynolds turns around, takes aim, and fires twice at the origin of the shot. Someone screams. Four men approach, in the trademark red suits of the Kings. Lee screams like a baby. Browne shoots at something Burr can’t see. And then Lee drags them all out, yelling orders that nobody can hear, out of the house, mission over. Get in the car— just one car, leaving the other for the reds, not even grabbing the files, _what the fuck Lee—_ and move back to their house, taking the long route, if the reds chase them it’s over.

And if Burr had half the station to do it, he would chew Lee out, but he doesn’t. So instead he just looks from Reynolds to Lee and suggests, quietly, “I think returning to base would be the ideal move at this point in time.”

The rest of the team gives small nods of assent, and as Lee’s cheeks heat up he calls Washington.

( _That’s the downside of being a captain,_ Burr thinks viciously. _You have to tell the boss himself that you failed._ )

Reynolds gets in the drivers’ seat of the car for the return trip, and there’s an awkward silence that permeates the entire car.

 

Hamilton watches Burr and the rest of Lee’s crew come in over the security cameras. They look tired, which he’d have expected. What he wouldn’t have expected is the way Washington storms in and speaks to him in clipped tones. “Hamilton.”

“Yes, sir?” Washington is intimidating even when he’s not trying to be, so much so that it was hard for Hamilton to imagine him trying to be scary. This scenario has solved that problem easily; Hamilton resists the urge to curl away from the force of his voice.

“Are Lee and the others here?” His voice is impossibly calm, smooth, and he doesn’t wait for an answer before bending over to view the little security camera window. “Wonderful. Send them up.”

Hamilton walks down and sees Burr standing fake-casual near the wall.

“Lee, the General would like to speak with you.” Hamilton restrains a smile when Lee goes white.

Hamilton has barely left the office when he hears something break against the wall, and he can almost make out every word that Washington says. Swearing, he can tell, tell. He and the aides have been kicked out, but they’re not yet far away enough that they can claim plausible deniability when they hear him yell.

Hamilton hears something about ‘cowardly little bitch, never should have—“ and then the rest of Lee’s team enters the room. They’re four, down one man, and everyone looks different shades of disheveled and pissed off. 

Burr shoots him a tired look. “Hamilton.” And then, turning to his other aides: “Laurens, Lafayette.” Hamilton gives Burr a smile, short and pulled together.

“How was the mission?” Lafayette asks, and the team mutters annoyedly. Burr leans against the wall, brushes his face clear of imaginary hair, and sighs.

“You don’t want to know,” says Reynolds, who has clearly mastered the art of both keeping a straight face and being a shady bitch. Lee is talking now. Hamilton can tell because the noise coming from Washington’s office is clearly softer now.

Washington talks. Lee thumps up against the door. Burr stifles a grin, and Hamilton shoots one at him, more open now then he’s been for a while.

Burr bites back a grin and smooths his face over, while still somehow conveying a returning smile to Hamilton. “The… original justification was successful. The follow-up was slightly sloppy,” he says, and another man— Browne, Hamilton thinks— laughs softly. 

Hamilton looks Burr over again, more slowly. He’s leaning on one leg, looks hurt. Hamilton’s really not being over-protective, but Lee can eat his ass if he thinks it’s okay to hurt Burr like this. Hamilton narrows his eyes at Laurens. He knows that he can’t toss Lee down, he can’t say _anything_ about this, or Washington will rip him apart. So he signs something, switching to fingerspelling when he needs to be more discreet, just quickly enough that no one but Laurens and maybe Lafayette can catch more than a couple letters. _Damn him with his men_. Hamilton hasn’t been around long, but he knows how to fuck this up for Lee. Make him seem unlikeable, discredit Lee by making it very plain to Washington that nobody likes Lee, that they won’t serve under him, won’t obey his orders.

He’s not sure Laurens saw what he signed at first. And then Laurens, pitching his voice louder than strictly necessary, asks, “God, how long has it been since a captain fucked up that bad?”

The room goes quiet. Hamilton squints, trying to figure out if the rest of the men caught on. But _fuck,_ Laurens is smart, phrasing that as a question. Burr looks at him sideways and Hamilton grins and shuts his eyes at him.

“Oh, I couldn’t say,” chimes in Reynolds, who is surprisingly quick on the draw. “I’ll tell you what, though, I hope they pick someone a little more competent to replace him.”

Hamilton is about to chime in when Laurens smirks. “More competent then Lee? Well, I never.” He grins, and Hamilton grins back at him, nodding and signing an obscene gesture at Washington’s office door and _fuck._ He’s in the middle of the sign when Washington’s office flies open and Lee stumbles out, looking thoroughly reprimanded. There’s a little bit of dried blood on his nose that Hamilton’s 75% positive wasn’t there when he went in.

And he turns to the aides looking positively furious. His expression doesn’t change as he begins to talk. “Hamilton, right? Have a nice day.” And Lee, he realizes, thinks for some reason that Hamilton had said what Laurens said. Which destroys the _whole fucking point of asking Laurens to say those things, fuck._ Especially if Washington agrees.

He’s still stressing about it when later that day, Browne walks into the aides’ office. “Lee sent you a… present.” And evidently ordered Browne to deliver it to them, judging by the annoyed look on his face. “Hamilton.” Browne hands him an envelope before walking out of the room, back ramrod straight.

“Hamilton?” Laurens asks, raising his eyebrows while Hamilton opens the envelope slowly. “Alexander?” And he hears Laurens ask again, because Hamilton knows he hasn’t responded yet, focused instead on reading through the letter. It’s just a small card, but it’s _terrible._

_To Aide-de-camp Alexander Hamilton:_

 

_I would like to express my distaste with your crude remarks, disrespect, and despicable conduct this afternoon. You, aide-de-camp Laurens, and Gen. Washington have deliberately disvalued my contributions to the cause and unfairly judged me. This conduct stains my honor._

_I would like to cordially invite an aide-de-camp to a DUEL, tomorrow night, at the ATLANTIC HIGHLANDS in NEW JERSEY._

 

_Charles Lee_

 

Forty-five seconds late, Hamilton looks up. He has not been this fucking angry in a very long time. “He’s asked me to… duel.”

And Laurens snatches the letter and Hamilton lets him read it. “Holy fuck. Are you—” and then Laurens cuts him off and re-reads one part of the letter, slowly, mouthing the words to himself. And when he looks up, his eyes are shining.

Hamilton could kick himself, never been this angry with himself, because _of course_ pushing his anger and his dumb, idiotic, _dumb_ ideas onto his friend is going to end with some sort of consequence for him. 

And what will he do, if not duel? Embarrass himself publicly, stain his reputation, ruin his relationship with Washington? And it’s not like Lee’s a crack shot anyways. Yes, he will duel shakes his head. “Jesus fuck. That’s a mess.”

And Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “Yeah. Will you be my second?” And Hamilton owes Burr 50 bucks for every time Hamilton brushed off his warnings, because he really did fuck up this time, because it’s _Hamilton’s fault_ that Lee hates him. Nobody else did that. so much that he challenged him to a duel, and Laurens is asking him to be his second.

“You’re… just deciding to go? Like that?” Laurens is unamused and open mouthed, reading through the letter again.

Laurens sighs. “What’s the other option? Death by public humiliation? Will you be my second or not, John?” Burr owes him at least five hundred dollars.

“Alex.” His first name seems inappropriate suddenly, seems too intimate, makes the situation more awkward than it already is. “No. I’m not letting you—“

“I’m not an idiot, Laurens.” But doesn’t Laurens _get it_? If he doesn’t at least show up to the duel, Lee will decimate him, Washington will fire him, because who wants to work with someone who doesn’t have enough courage to stand up for _himself_ , let alone others? “I have to go, I have to…” He trails off.

But Laurens isn’t listening, suddenly. He’s glaring at one line. “No. Alex, no, look.” He jabs his finger at one line in the letter, the last sentence. “I would like to cordially invite an aide-de-camp— he doesn’t say who! Alex, I could go—” He’s excited about this, leaning in, his face so close to Hamilton’s that he can practically feel the vibration of his chest.

And _no, no,_ Laurens could die too. “The risks are the same— and Washington won’t get as pissed as much if I go. Because oh, don’t forget, you have to settle this without _dying_ or bringing this into the office, and Washington hates people trying to tell him what to do. So you have to settle this without being directly involved. How? I’ll go! You can be my second, you can blame me. It’ll be—“ Laurens really is inappropriately close now. At some point they moved from sitting to standing and now their chests are brushing. Laurens’ eyes are impossibly big. “You’re my best friend, Hamilton,” he says, and Hamilton’s breath catches.

“You— idiot. You could die.” He could die. Laurens could die, and Hamilton would be able to do fuck-all about it.

Laurens laughs a little bit. “I’m a better shot than you.” 

“I’m not—“ Hamilton’s not even sure what he’s trying to say. Lauren’s face is very close to his. He leans in a little more. Their foreheads are touching. Laurens raises his eyebrows and Hamilton can feel it on his own. Laurens doesn’t shoot him down. Hamilton has never been more grateful.

And Laurens’ idea is actually decent. Hamilton smiles. The door is locked, he’s almost positive. His stomach twists. This is the worst idea he has had since— well, since he got _challenged to a duel_. But this one can be very quick.

He tilts his head to the side and presses his lips to Laurens’. It’s quick. Laurens’ lips are slightly dry and his heart is pounding. Hamilton tries to keep himself from blushing.

Laurens is just _standing_ _there_ , dammit, and so Hamilton changes the topic. He can’t bring himself to lean back, so he tilts his head left and takes his forehead an inch off Laurens’ again. “Will you let me be your second?”

Laurens’ mouth is open, slightly. Hamilton wants to kiss him again. But Laurens raises his eyebrows and leans in.

He kisses soft and sweet and with the slightest bit of tongue. Hamilton feels suddenly strong and light headed. When Laurens pulls back and says “Okay,” Hamilton thinks he might throw up.

“Okay.”

 

And then they’re on the dueling field, some _actual_ field, god knows New Jersey is barely even good for that. Hamilton’s breathing is heavy and he touches Laurens’ wrist, feeling his pulse. “Don’t die,” he says, and Laurens laughs softly and grins.

“I’m not planning on it,” the other man says, and lightning quick leans in to kiss him on the lips. Hamilton didn’t realize how chapped his lips were until Laurens soft ones were on them.

Before he can react, Laurens grins and walks off. Hamilton sees Burr walking up and is absolutely confounded for maybe five seconds before he sees Lee. And _boy,_ he has some shit to tell Burr.

But Lee talks first, of course. “Laurens. You… took the fall for Hamilton, correct?” And theat _bastard,_ that absolute bastard, Hamilton could kill him. But that’s bad ettiquitte so he forces his shoulders to relax and sighs.

It’s not the most convenient thing, duels. Lauren's raising his eyebrows at Lee like he’s never seen anyone more despicable and Hamilton wants to laugh, almost, except it’s not funny. 

And then Burr coughs and Hamilton almost steps forward because what the _fuck,_ actually. Burr is Lee’s second? Burr doesn’t even _like_ Lee. Burr was on the mission Lee fucked up on. Burr has no love for this man, and yet, here he is defending his white trash ass. What the actual _fuck._ Hamilton has not been this mad in a while.

“Burr,” he says, giving a smile. Burr looks up and shoots him a smile back, the rest of his face blank. “Lovely to see you here.” Lee and Laurens have moved to the side, talking about the permitted weaponry.

“So you won’t apologize?” Hamilton hears from over there, not sure whether it’s from Lee or Laurens. Burr is walking forward with a doctor, and there’s some sort of irony there, the assassin being the only one who’s remembered to call a doctor.

Burr sets up the doctor with his bag, a lower-level one who won’t talk,and then turned to Hamilton. “And you as well, Alexander.” His face is so blank, so blank.

And Hamilton has to have a perfect face for this to work, so he relaxes his tight set mouth, jaw, forehead and cheeks until his face shows nothing. “What has you seconding for the man who almost got you killed?” he asks, face not changing except for the requisite question eyebrow raising.

Burr looks impressed, and Hamilton feels too warm inside for someone about to watch his best friend duel. “Needed _something_ to do today,” Burr quips. “And Edwards bailed. Another captain,” he explains. Hamilton lets his lips bend up into a slight smile.

But now Lee and Laurens have finished talking and Lee is stomping back over like a toddler. “Burr,” Lee says in a voice that’s too loud, “You and Hamilton negotiate now.”

And Jesus _Christ,_ Burr’s not an idiot, okay? He knows how duels work. And Burr seems to be thinking much the same thing, because he sighs and leans back. “Yes. You two, go.” Burr’s not allowed to do that, see, but it works for him. Laurens and Lee go.

“So.” Hamilton lets himself smile the smallest amount. “Aaron Burr. Sir.” He adds the last word on as an afterthought, lets himself reference back to their meeting. Burr just looks at him, big eyes and blank face, and Hamilton feels suddenly self-conscious.

And Burr doesn’t change his face. “Hamilton. Can we just agree, _for once,_ that duels are immature?”

This is comfortable territory for Hamilton, defending his ground. “Immature? Yes. But Lee almost _killed you_ and everyone else on your team, calling for a retreat before you’d even decided to attack. And then had the nerve to _challenge Laurens and I to a duel._ Do you see why I’m unwilling to back down until he apologizes?”

Burr looks tired, suddenly, exhausted, and Hamilton’s not sure whether it’s with Laurens or with himself. “Or until he pays for it with his death?” And that’s bullshit, guilt-tripping, and _not fucking fair_ above all else.

“He challenged us to this duel, you bipartisan walnut,” Hamilton says, softening his words. But why is he softening them? Fuck. “You idiot, he almost got _you_ killed, and promoting retreat like that? What sort of bullshit example will that set for others? If Washington’s prized personal staff can retreat whenever the other side has a couple guns, a few men, what does that mean for the rest of us?” Burr looks even more tired. “Get your _captain—_ “ he spits the word “—to apologize to Laurens, Washington and me. Then we’ll talk.”

“And _I_ , Alex, grammar,” Burr mutters under hisbreath. He looks exasperated now, barely impressed by the paragraph’s he’s talking in. “I get it, alright? You—” but he’s cut off by Lee striding over again.

“Have you two made a decision yet?” Lee sounds smug, of course. Burr shares a look with Hamilton and then turns his head to look at Lee.

Burr sounds cheery, all of a sudden. “Yes. The duel is a go.” Hamilton walks stiffly towards Laurens, watch Burr do the same with Lee.

Hamilton’s heart is beating very loud, suddenly, in his neck and ears. He can feel the blood pulsing through his hands. Time is funny sometimes, fast then slow then fast again. Laurens draws his gun, Lee draws his gun. They’re back to back. Beat beat beat. Everything is very bright, trees are shiny and the sky shouldn’t be that shade of green-blue, not this far north.

Someone’s counting, Burr’s counting, one two three, five eight nine— and then Lee’s turning and Laurens is too, and they’re shooting and everything is fast. Lee falls down, and Hamilton’s brain is working enough again so that he can tell it’s a minor wound, a side wound. Laurens walks up, and Burr does too. This isn’t a duel ending wound by any standard, but Lee is moaning and flailing around and acting like— _like he’s been shot,_ Hamilton thinks, and has to restrain a smile.

The doctor is there, brought by Burr, Hamilton remembers. “Alright, Mr. Lee, can you lie down for me? Yes, just like that, keep your legs nice and still.” Lee is still groaning. Laurens lets out an almost silent snort of laughter. 

And then he turns to Hamilton, and suddenly he is smiling, grinning huge and happy. “Te lo dije,” he says. _I told you so_. Hamilton lets himself be hugged, and hugs back, big eyes and happy. He lets himself bury his face in Laurens’ shoulder, lets himself grin and laugh into Lauren’s still-white shirt.

Burr coughs. Hamilton hugs tighter. “You did it. We did it,” he says, muffled but still audible. He’s safe Laurens is alive everything is golden. Burr is rolling his eyes, he can see. This is the happiest he’s been since—

His phone rings, the one Washington got for him, and he goes pale. Steps back from the hug.

Picks it up. 


End file.
